Americaphiles

The Story Of My Fucking Life

Eighty-seven

Posted by ilbebe on February 8, 2012

Aych Eye Jay Kay El Em,

AH, this correspondence is really coming to Concord. Which Concord; NH, NC, or CA, I don’t yet know- probably all three. I’m thinking that, with yr permission, I’d like to craft one of our recent exchanges, if not this very one, with yr response and mine, chicken plus egg plus Italian Sausage and Cold Coffee For Change, and make that an upcoming chapter.

These are not the fables; these are The Americaphiles. Freedom songs for freedom, written in the morning to last all day.

Yeah, it’s gonna be this chapter. Tonight’s The Night, and it’s only 10:30.

Bright and sunny on 7th and Irving. I awoke shortly after dawn in the Castro, walked up Corbett to Twin Peaks, and spent time on both peaks. The larger, lower, more accessible one was pretty quiet. The peaks were nearly completely enveloped in fog, yet the weak winter sun filtered through a few times, and those were the sweet moments when I could see myself on top of a mountain, all in white. SF’s magic is born of the fog that lets scruffy plants and butterflies thrive on top of a mountain in the winter, and the fog that come there to appreciate it.

I smoked a cig, found twelve cents, and saw a small, lowered Japanese car with a sticker in the rear window that said “No fat chicks. I’ll scrape.”

I started walking down the hill, tired already and thirsty, but decided upon reconsideration to make the effort and walk up the larger, slimmer, pedestrians-and-animals-access-only peak. Once at the top of that peak, I was totally alone, and completely enveloped in the soft mystery of the morning fog. It was by that time about 9 o’clock. I smoked some weed, popped a cough drop in my mouth, and read some more of my edit copy of Americaphiles, Volume Two. I found a nickel in between the two bifurcated rock scarps on top of the peak. I walked back down after about twenty minutes, coming upon a small gas station near the intersection of Portola, Woodside, and Claremont, where I bought a bottle of water and a pack of Parliament Full-Flavors. I continued down Woodside until it met with Laguna Honda, then followed Laguna Honda north around the curve and past the mental hospital. Two landscapers were working in a garden northeast of the main gates, and I complemented them on the beautiful campus they maintain there. “It’s such a pleasant place to walk by on a nice morning!”

Five years ago today I woke up in Fremont Hospital, fourth-floor psych ward. The landscaping there was dismal. Feeemont sux. This morning I woke up in the bed of my lover, but did not, could not make love, because there is still a lot of work to be done ironing out how we communicate. We accuse each other of not giving each other space or listening, and it hurts us, but luckily we are there for each other. We said we loved each other for the first time last night after arguing about whose fault it was that I’m poor and she couldn’t find a condom to use until it was too late. It was a stone bummer, and this morning was a sober drag.

But in writing to you bruv, I see the light of no tunnel, and I’m making it better. The light I’m looking for is all around me, and I’m going to the beach later today after I finish this email, post it to the blog, finish this coffee, get some brandy (“or as they say in Philadelphia, ‘wata'”-RDaltrey, Isle of Wight, August 1970), and head to the beach. I’ll walk on all the way down there, Neilly Percival ringing sweetly in my eyes. I’ll take Irving and Judah to the ocean, stare at the sea for a while, then stand at the intersection of Lincoln Boulevard and Martin Luther King, Jr. Way, then follow MLK toi it’s intersection with JFK and know even more strongly then than I already do that I am a peacemaker, and this summer I am going to go on a phenomenal quest for the purpose of spreading peace across this nation that will be covered by the providence of the Pilgrim’s Progress and Passion.

I can’t wait, but I will.

Lemme know as soon as yr comfortable if I can post yr letter below along with my response as chapter 87.

Teenage Wasteland No More. I’ll fight for my meals, and I’ll fight for yrs.

Luv ya buddy,

-El

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